


On Ne Fait Pas D'Omelette Sans Casser d'Oeufs

by hazelandglasz



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cooking, Fluff, Food Porn, M/M, Reviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 15:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelandglasz/pseuds/hazelandglasz
Summary: anonymous asked : "i have no idea if you take prompts, but i found a hilarious au and I'm just imagining Kurt stomping into Blaine's apartment, red in his face with rage; "you write me a bad restaurant review and i force myself into your kitchen so i can cook you my food until you admit it’s good au""





	

**Author's Note:**

> Reminds me of Friends, S04e09 ...

Most of the time, Kurt Hummel know how to behave like a perfectly decent human being.

Even in as hostile an environment as a kitchen, he--usually--manages to keep his cool, leading his squad with a firm yet gentle hand, accepting constructive criticisms with grace and making sure, above all else, that his customers leave his restaurant satisfied and happy.

But this …

This …

This fucking asshole, toilet reject of B. D. Anderson?

That … “critic”?

Whoever they are, they managed to make Kurt scream wordlessly while crumpling the newspaper with their latest column.

“Uninspired rack of lamb”?

_ I’ll show you where you can shove that rack of lamb, you absolute waste of space. _

“As for the kale mac’n’cheese, it’s a wonder no one thought its appropriate serving place was the bottom of the river”???

_ I’ll make  _ you  _ sleep with the fishes. _

“Soulless soufflé”?

_ Go fuck yourself on a rotten cactus. _

Actually, that last comment is the one that sends Kurt into a fit of rage strong enough to slam a bottle of chocolate milk ( [ Irished ](http://www.drinksmixer.com/drinkrq14047.html) , mind you) on the counter next to his tablet, searching for a B.D. Anderson in the grand city of New York.

 

Most of the time, Kurt Hummel is not one for seeking confrontation.

But calling his soufflé, his pride and joy, “soulless”???

Kurt is going to find this person and tear them a new one--with his words, more efficient in Kurt’s opinion--before proving to them that his food is not soulless, god fucking dammit.

“Kurt, you need to stop.”

_ Six pages of results in Brooklyn only, shit. _

“Mercedes, you try, he won’t listen to me.”

“Kurt? Chef?”

_ Who is Barbara Anderson and why is she registered in the Yellow pages under 12 different addresses??? _

“Nothing good is going to come out of this, Kurt,” Mercedes insists, putting her hand over the screen. “Finish your milk, white boy, go sober it at home and come back tomorrow for a good brainstorming session to show that guy that--”

“Guy?” Kurt says, looking up from the screen--he was trying to read between Mercedes’ fingers--to glare at his sous. “How do you know it’s a guy?”

Mercedes shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest. “Sam told me he was serving a guy with a little notebook who ordered the kale’n’cheese, the lamb and the soufflé.”

“Okay,” Kurt mutters, picking up the tablet to keep her from stopping him in his quest. “That eliminates Beatrice, Beth and Bettany … Aha!”

“Oh no.” Mercedes pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Blaine D. Anderson, on 82nd street!” Kurt exclaims. “I bet he’s an old Viking-like man with a beer belly.”

“Not how Sam described him,” Mercedes mutters before looking at him in the eyes, holding his chin to make him stop. “What are you going to do?”

“Make him see that I am not a robot cook.”

“Who cares what he thinks?!” Mercedes exclaims. “We all know that your food comes your heart, Kurt, and that James Beard award didn’t come from that critic’s ass! It--”

“Nomination.”

“Excuse you?”

“It was a James Beard  _ Nomination _ ,” Kurt says slowly, the sting of not actually winning the Young Chef Award still fresh in his stomach. 

“Nomination, schmomination, you still made the list, didn’t you?” Mercedes replies, waving his objection to the wind. “And what does that critic do anyway? Eat good food, and slander it to make him feel like a bigger man. Who cares what he thinks?” she repeats. “Don’t do anything stupid,  _ chef _ .”

She kisses his cheek, wipes at the mark of lipstick she left on it, and leaves him with her words echoung in the kitchen.

Wise words, too.

Mercedes is a wise chef, and one day, she’ll run  _ Splendor _ with an iron fist and all the  _ chef de partie _ will love it.

But.

That day is not today.

Because today, Kurt is still Splendor’s headchef, and it’s his name that got dragged into the mud.

It’s his honor that has to be cleared.

Before he can change his mind and let Mercedes sway him, Kurt enters the address on 82nd street in his phone and finishes his chocolate milk.

\---

_ I wouldn’t mind living here _ , Kurt thinks as he looks at the cute house that is his destination.

If anything, comparing this house to his shoebox of an apartment only makes him angrier at the Critic for insulting him and his food.

He rings the doorbell a couple of times, wincing when a dog starts barking in the house next door and he can hear a baby wailing.

A quick look at his wrist reminds him that he doesn’t wear a watch, and the fact that he forgot  _ that  _ fact may be a good indication of how late it is in itself.

_ Shit _ .

An old woman, with glasses like the bottom of bottles, opens the door and glares at Kurt.

“What is it?” She asks, voice strong and belying her wrinkles.

“Are you--are you Blaine Anderson?” Kurt asks, because eh, pennames happen.

Then again, didn’t Mercedes say something about this critic being a young man …?

The name is like a password to the old woman’s smile, and she beams at him. “Oh you’re a friend of Blainey? I must say, it is pretty late, but come on in, come on in!”

“Who was it, aunt Lola?” A young, male voice calls from the … Kitchen?

“It’s one of your friends, Blainey,” Lola replies, winking at Kurt. “What is your name, darling?”

“Um, Kurt, ma’am,” Kurt replies before he can stop himself.

“It’s Kurt,” she calls towards the kitchen. “Be a good host, and don’t worry, I have my headphones on!”

Kurt is already turning pink when she turns to pat his arm. “I have a Call Of Duty marathon,” she tells him. “Be good to my nephew, or else.”

“Or else?”

She simply smiles at him before trotting up the stairs.

_ Holy shit. _

The sounds from the kitchen stop and footsteps approach. “Kurt?” The voice repeats. “I don’t know any K--oh,” the man says as he enters the room.

_ Holy Michelin Stars. _

For a moment, Kurt forgets why he came here in the middle of the night.

He forgets all about the critic, about the hurt he felt, about the exhaustion of the day spent behind the plates.

Frankly, he kind of forgets his own name.

Because the man standing in the doorway, with his sleeves rolled to his elbow and tight jeans rolled at the ankles, with his hair groomed but a few curls escape the hold of the gel to show that today hasn’t been kind on him either?

That man?

Kurt wants to cook him a cake and feed it to him after a solid physical session, clothing optional.

Cooking.

_ Right _ .

Kurt is here for a reason, isn’t he.

“Chef,” Horrid Critic (In A Delicious Package (Don’t Think About Package Damn You)) says, his voice soft as he cleans his hands on a towel. “What brings you to this part of town at this late hour?”

“Your review,” Kurt replies before he can make a fool of himself. “Your unfairly bad review of my cooking performance,” he continues, letting his hurt ego take over--far better to be on the offensive than lovesick-- “and I will show you how unfair and wrong you were.”

“Oh?”

“Where is the kitchen?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I will cook you a meal that will make you eat your words,” Kurt says, already walking in the direction of the room ‘Blainey’ came from.

“My words are often a bit too bitter to be enjoyable,” Anderson says with a little chuckle, nonetheless following Kurt in his own kitchen and sitting at the little wooden table--God, it’s adorable, Kurt can’t help but notice as he takes in his temporary working environment, with the checkered cloth napkins and the green vase that has seen better days but contains beautiful roses.

Back to the subject at hand. “So you admit that you were too harsh in your critic of my food?”

Another chuckle, and the Critic shakes his head. “ _ Au contraire _ , Chef,” he says softly, and there is something deliciously erotic in the way the word come out of his mouth. “My review of my dinner at Splendor reflected my thoughts and impressions to a T. I’m merely acknowledging how it must have felt for you, on the other side of the … field, so to speak,” the man adds, resting his chin in his opened palm and looking at Kurt with earnest eyes.

Kurt clenches his fists, not quite sure if he wants to punch the man or kiss him silly--either seems like an effective way to shut him up.

“What exactly was uninspired with my rack of lamb?” Kurt asks through gritted teeth, turning to the fridge to rummage through its content--lots of caffeinated drinks, but it may belong to Aunt Lola and her gaming ways; some yoghurts and juice boxes, but otherwise a pretty decent array of fresh ingredients.

Color Kurt impressed.

“Oh come on, Chef,” Anderson says, and by God he’s laughing in Kurt’s face, “are you telling me that the poor herbal rub really came to you as a culinary epiphany?”

Kurt rolls his eyes, and he grabs parsley and mint before conceding that point in a grumble.

“It was pinken to perfection, I’ll give you that,” the Critic says softly. “Not the best seasoning you could have come up with, Chef--”

“Kurt.”

“Hm?”

“You know my name, I’d prefer if you used it until I feel like you’re not mocking me every time you use my title,” Kurt explains, keeping his focus on the fridge’s content.

A beat passes.

“Kurt.”

Kurt can’t even try to deny the shiver that goes down his spine at the way his name rolls down from the man’s tongue.

“I’m Blaine,” the Critic adds, and when Kurt chances a glance over the fridge’s door, he’s smiling crookedly at Kurt, head tilted to the side in an expression Kurt has some trouble reading. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

Blaine straightens up, opening his arms wide to encompass the whole room. “You found me, didn’t you?”

Kurt’s face is probably warm enough to fry an egg on it. “I did,” he manages without a stutter, refocusing on the fridge and the recipes he could whip out with its content.

And then he remembers what his mentor used to say.

_ “Wanna test a cook before adding them to your line? Ask them to make you an omelet.” _

Kurt clenches his jaw and grabs the box of eggs, adding them to the counter next to the herbs, and looks for butter and some soft cheese.

Behind him, he hears the soft noise of bare feet on the floor, a drawer being opened, something metallic being settled over a stove, and more steps away.

With a pack of butter and a piece of feta in hand, he closes the fridge and sees a metallic bowl and a pan sitting on the stove.

Blaine is back in his chair, hands clasped on top of the table, and as Kurt looks at him with a small frown, he arches one eyebrow.

Now that’s a look Kurt can recognize.

A challenge.

_ Very well. _

Kurt takes a teatowel and knots in his pocket and goes to wash his hand. “Do you happen to have a whisk?” he asks as he dries his hand, getting ready.

Blaine nods towards the stove, and sure enough, all the tools Kurt only drooled over when he was a student are there, hooked on the wall. “And the spices are in the cupboard to your left,” Blaine adds, relaxing in the chair but never looking away from Kurt’s hands.

_ Right _ , Kurt reminds himself before he lets the blush settle in,  _ I’m here to prove my food has soul _ .

Kurt whisks the eggs patiently, only adding one when the previous one is completely smooth in the bowl.

Trying to ignore the heat of Blaine’s eyes on him as he proceeds to melt some of the butter in the pan, Kurt focuses on it, watching for the first hint of bubbles to pour the smooth eggs in the pan delicately but swiftly, before the pan turns too warm and burn his layer.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Blaine’s voice startles him, particularly since it’s closer to him than he expected.

Blaine is leaning against the cupboards, arms crossed over his chest, and he’s looking at the pan too.

“Hm?”

Kurt sprinkles some salt and white pepper, along with shredded pieces of the herbs into the raw eggs, patiently scraping the edges of the pan.

“It’s just one bad review,” Blaine replies softly. “Why did it bother you so badly that you felt you had to prove me wrong in my own house?”

Kurt takes a deep breath, and looks at Blaine. There is no aggressivity in his stance, just curiosity.

“If you had kept it to a critique of the dishes, it would have been fine--just one bad review, like you said,” Kurt replies. “But ‘soulless’? That was an attack on  _ me _ .”

Blaine sighs and hangs down his head. “I knew that was mean,” he says as Kurt returns his attention to the omelet, sprinkling little pieces of the salty cheese, following the line drawn by the pan handle. “But--”

“But what?” Kurt interrupts, slamming his palm to the counter while the cheese melts slowly on top of the omelet. “I check every single one of the desserts that come out of my kitchen, Mr. Anderson, and it’s my job to make sure that they are all satisfactory.”

“I wasn’t,  _ Chef Hummel _ ,” Blaine replies, his voice a bit harder now around the edges, “but for starters, it’s not the most original of desserts to begin with, merely a stroke of the chef’s ego, and for seconds, it wasn’t as light and fluffy and decadent as you would have your customers believe, and it is  _ my  _ job to make sure that they know what they’re in for.” He pauses, chest heaving, and a smirk surfaces on his lips. “Besides, I was under the impression that you didn’t settle for ‘satisfactory’. Was that impression the wrong one?”

Kurt opens and closes his mouth, returning his attention to the omelet, starting to roll it by adding little pieces of butter onto the pan as he goes, until he has a  [ perfect golden roll ](http://www.bonappetit.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/ludos-omelet1-620x447.jpg) .

Blaine opens another cupboard, pulling out a delicate plate for Kurt, and the omelet slides easily from pan to plate.

“I felt like I  _ had _ to put soufflés on the menu,” he replies finally, sprinkling some salt and some parsley leaves on the finished omelet. “And you are right, satisfactory is not enough for me.”

Blaine gives him a nod of acknowledgment and opens a drawer, taking two forks out and offering silently one to Kurt. 

They stay standing up, each cutting a piece of the eggy goodness before putting it to their mouth.

Kurt can’t help but notice the way Blaine eats--delicately and seriously, like food is not just a fuel to the machine of his body, but an experience that deserves the time to be appreciated to its fullest.

_ He probably eats burgers with a fork and a knife, the cute weirdo. _

The thought is interrupted before it can make full sense in Kurt’s mind by Blaine making a small noise.

A small noise that could be mistaken for a moan.

Nah, it is a moan of pleasure as he chews on Kurt’s omelet.

Somewhere in the dark recess of his mind where she resides, Kurt’s sommelier is snickering at the possible innuendos.

“If you had served me this instead of the lamb,” Blaine finally says, a beaming smile illuminating his face, “we would have a very different conversation tonight.”

“Oh?” Kurt says, a smug grin stretching his lips around his fork.

“My review might have contained a wedding proposal, to be honest.”

Kurt nearly chokes on his bite of omelet, but it would be criminal because this is a very fine omelet if he may say so himself, so he gulps it down.

Blaine doesn’t seem to see how his words affected his guest, and he walks towards the fridge. “This omelet deserves a nice pairing, let me see if I have--” his words are lost to Kurt because the critic just bends over as he goes to search something within the depths of the appliance.

The man is handsome in a lot of aspects, but that  _ ass _ …

Wow, it’s warm in the kitchen all of a sudden.

“Aha!” Blaine exclaims, reappearing with two glass bottles, and Kurt just has enough time to look away before getting caught at ogling a man he hated only a couple of hours ago. “A nice  [ _ bière blanche _ ](http://www.paradis-biere.com/images/blherm_b.jpg) , will be perfect with your omelet--Kurt, are you okay?”

Blaine sounds concerned, and Kurt blinks to get some form of control over himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m--I’m fine,” Kurt replies. “Just been a long day, you know?”

“I know.”

Blaine’s voice is soft again, and he holds up the two bottles, offering one to Kurt.

Kurt takes it, and they clink their bottles together. “To soulful food,” Blaine offers, and Kurt smiles at him.

“To constructive criticism,” he replies, before taking a swig of the beer. It’s light and herbal, the perfect match for the omelet he made. “You never wanted to be a chef?” he asks, picking another piece of said dish.

Blaine’s eyes widen-- _ my, what big eyes you have _ \--before he shakes his head. “I love food, making it and eating it,” he replies, “but I would never have the audacity to think I can make a living out of it.”

“But you do cook.”

“When I have a date over, yes.”

“What’s your date dish then?”

Blaine raises one eyebrow at Kurt, and his smile is half fond, half mocking. “I’d rather show than tell,” he replies, and Kurt …

Kurt can’t help but swoon a little.

“Deal.”

(Truth be told, Blaine’s  [ pasta alla bottarga ](http://67.media.tumblr.com/6104fb2f8078ffc9765de2487d61e06a/tumblr_oesl3v322r1qc2832o1_500.jpg) are the perfect date dish, and they finish it in the pan, wrapped in Blaine’s sheets.)

(They do save a plate for Aunt Lolla, because neither wants to anger her.)

(Kurt takes the soufflé off the menu, and replaces it with Aunt Lolla’s  [ pineapple tarte tatin ](http://az723720.vo.msecnd.net/media/img12633.768x512.jpg) , much to Blaine’s joy.)

(Aunt Lolla ministers their wedding two years later, and Kurt is more than happy to let Mercedes take over the kitchen on that day.

The menu?

Rack of lamb with kale’n’cheese and individual soufflés.

Blaine has no critic that day.)


End file.
